Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory (9 page)

“Surely something,” he finally said, looking back at Greene and Wayne.

The two looked one to the other and finally Wayne spoke up.

“May I suggest this, sir? A call for volunteers. Fifty men from each brigade of the army. That will be close on to a thousand men. No artillery. If not enough volunteer, let officers chose the men they think best and most fit for the task. Those men, joining in with Morgan’s riflemen, would be a sufficient strike force to hit a strung-out column on the road and send them reeling.”

“But not enough to capture the supplies they have taken intact and bring them back,” Tench interjected.

Wayne sighed and shook his head.

“Cattle, sheep, and swine on foot, yes, we might be able to drive them here. But the rest? We’ll then be the hunted with that many wagons, especially if the weather turns and the roads thaw into mud. Their light infantry will then have us by the throat.

“At best we can spoil their fun and take some of the food for ourselves.”

“And Howe?” Washington asked.

“He’ll be too well guarded and they will make sure he gets out. He is simply using himself as bait, sir, to try and lure our entire army out. That would be the most intemperate of moves this day. I can mount a flying column to be ready at dawn, sir, but I beg you, leave the rest of the army here. Find food for these men, find tools for them to build huts so they can survive through this winter.

“General, this army is here, at Valley Forge, for the winter. To ask anything more of them will be the death of most of them and probably the death of our independence.”

Washington took it in, thoughts turning back to his elaborate plan for the seizing of Philadelphia on Christmas night…and at that moment, cold ice
water dripping down through the burst seams of his tent, he finally realized the reality he must face.

There would be no attack this Christmas night…though a gesture would be made by Wayne tomorrow. The Continental Army was finished as an offensive force for this winter. There would be no second Trenton, and at that moment he wondered: If, before the winter was out, Howe decided to bestir himself, could he even mount a defense?

Valley Forge must be a place of survival to keep some nucleus of his army intact and, from that nucleus, to rebuild with hopes for a spring to come, if they should live that long.

“Do as you suggested, General Wayne,” he whispered. “Do as you suggested. Report to me before you leave at dawn.”

Wayne saluted, Greene as well, and the two left. Through the thin canvas wall of the tent he could hear their whispers in spite of the rising storm, which now was buffeting the tent, Greene thanking Wayne for convincing the general not to commit double suicide, for himself and for the American cause.

Tench stood silent as if awaiting orders.

“Some time alone, Tench,” he said softly.

His aide nodded and withdrew.

Alone, he stared around at his command tent, water pouring in now from half a dozen leaks, men outside cursing and then laboring as one of the tent lines uprooted, fighting to drive it back in place into the frozen ground.

He was hungry, but then again he knew his hunger was not that which the common infantry of the line were suffering out in the open in this storm. At least there had been a bit of bacon and coffee at dawn, and Billy Lee would surely find something later and most likely lie if he pressed too closely as to where it came from.

He had boots, though his feet were cold and wet, and a uniform that decorum demanded be well fitted and relatively clean. The general in command must set some sort of example. No one would dare to steal his horse tonight to butcher as food.

And only twenty miles away, his foes paraded through the rich countryside, looting as they went, stocking up their larders for the Christmas feasting to come.

In York, the congressmen he must, as duty demanded, answer to, sent him letters, chastising letters about drunken soldiers stealing a pig, demanding he send his army hither and yon on mad, insane orders, and then openly
accuse him that the debacle they had created here at Valley Forge was now his fault. Soon he would, without doubt, face their inquiries, with Gates, as head of the Board of War, standing behind them, ready to seize command.

There was nothing he could possibly do now at this moment other than what his inner spirit told him to do.

Lowering his head, he clasped his hands tight and silently began to pray.

Valley Forge
December 22, 1777
Early Morning

“God, this is cold,” Sergeant Harris exclaimed, as the frigid wind cut into his face, causing him to turn aside and put his back to the icy blast.

“Come on, Peter,” Harris gasped to the private he had chosen as company for this task. Peter, with a hopeful ulterior motive in mind, had fallen behind.

The boy caught up.

Peter Wellsley was barefoot, his swollen feet fortunately still red, not turning black, a sure guarantee of a lifetime as a cripple. Typical of the lad, he was silent. Oftentimes, days would go by when he barely said a word. He was a good soldier but had not made a single friend in the rest of the unit. It was without doubt because he was not a Virginian, as were the rest of the company, but from New Jersey.

“I think it’s just around the bend here,” Harris announced, turning back into the wind and freezing rain, pushing on. The boy was supposed to look like some sort of official escort, but that was a farce. True, they were both wearing the famed buff and blue uniforms of the Third Virginia, the guard company for the commander of the Continental Army of America, or at least what was left of those uniforms. Shoes and boots had worn out long ago. The buff trousers were threadbare, thighs, knees, and backsides black from countless days of service in the field. The joke now was that no one dared to wash his uniform, since it was only the ground-in dirt and muck that was holding it together. At least with this company material was provided to patch up the tears, rents, and burst seams—it certainly would not do for a headquarters
unit to have men standing on parade with knees, elbows, and in more than a few cases bare backsides sticking out. Jackets were nearly black and brown as well. The few buttons still in place, at least, were polished with a paste mixture of charcoal from the morning’s fire pit. The white cross-hatchings for their cartridge box slings and haversacks were all but invisible. On occasion, attempts had been made to whiten them, but that was a futile effort of late, for no whitening paste was available.

Two ragged scarecrows off on a quest to find quarters for their general, Harris thought with a wry smile as they turned the corner of the road. Before them was a neat, small stone farmhouse. It was of two stories, the farm, yard, and barn were well tended, and smoke was curling from the chimneys that flanked the east and west sides of the house.

“Now look sharp you and remember what the general said—be respectful.”

“And what if they say no?” Peter asked.

“Leave that to me,” Harris muttered as he approached the door. Peter stopped several feet behind him, grounding his musket and standing at ease so as to not look threatening.

Harris knocked on the door and but a few seconds later it cracked open, the resident within having obviously seen their approach.

“What do you want?”

The door was opened only a few inches. A tall, bony woman of middle age nervously peeked out from the opening.

“Ma’am, by request of his Excellency General George Washington, may I speak to a Mr. Potts?”

“If you’re looking for food there’s none here. The British took most of it, and then some scoundrel with your army took the rest and left me with a worthless piece of paper.”

“Ma’am, I am not here seeking food,” Harris replied patiently. “May I come in and talk with you?”

She glared at him defiantly and started to close the door without replying. He leaned against it, trying not to appear as if he was forcing his way in, but not relenting, either.

“Ma’am, as an act of Christian charity, we are two soldiers out here in the cold. May we please come in and talk with you for a moment?”

She didn’t reply, but did not open the door, either.

“You have my solemn oath as a God-fearing man that I am here with an official request from General Washington. Please just hear us out, and if you then wish, we will be on our way.”

“Tell me what you want.”

He sighed, the cold wind whipping around him and his companion.

“The general wishes to rent your house as a headquarters.”

“Go on and tell another.” He couldn’t help but smile at her response even as she refused entry.

“May I be struck down if it is a lie,” he replied, trying to smile in reply, his teeth near to chattering with the cold. “Please may we come in, or frankly I think I will be struck down, from this cold.”

She finally conceded, and opened the door to let him in. She was tall, nearly six feet, angular, with more the build of a gangly boy than a middle-aged woman. She had a long, pinched face with a hawklike nose, graying hair tucked into a mobcap, and a heavy shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Harris motioned for Peter to follow, as with her hand on the door she seemed ready to close it on him.

“Come now, ma’am, would you leave a boy out in the cold?”

She hesitated, then opened it back up.

“In and be quick about it, and wipe your feet first.” She shooed them in as if they were wayward boys back from a romp and would now face punishment.

As they wiped their bare or canvas wrapped feet, she looked down at them, shook her head, and sighed. Peter’s feet were bare and Harris’s wrapped in canvas.

She slammed the door shut once they were inside, and without comment went into the kitchen off to the left, the two following.

The warmth of the room, the smell of something cooking in a kettle over the open fire, struck Harris like a wall. His head swam and for a few seconds he feared he would faint.

The room was saturated with warmth. Strange, almost confining, to feel four walls around him and a solid roof. And the smells! Bread was baking. A stew that smelled like potato, perhaps, with some pork mixed in, simmered over the fire. His stomach convulsively constricted. He looked back at Peter, who was actually leaning against the doorway into the kitchen for support, gazing wide-eyed, as if he had been raised to the gates of a paradise thought to be lost forever.

She turned in front of the fireplace with arms folded, fixing the two with a cold, sarcastic gaze.

“Well, on with it, state your business, and then be off with you. I don’t have time to waste on a lot of foolishness.”

Harris had to swallow hard. Strangely, he actually felt nauseated from the smell of food. As she gazed at them, she wrinkled her nose.

“Merciful God, the two of you stink like a manure pit in August. Now out with it and be on your way, and if it’s food you’re begging for…”

She sighed, looking past Harris to young Peter Wellsley.

“How old are you, boy?”

“Eighteen, ma’am,” he whispered.

“Eighteen,” and she shook her head, sighing. “Oh, damn it. Sit down. One bowl apiece and not a drop more, then out of here. Got barely enough for myself and now you starving boys are swarming all over the countryside. Whoever thought of this war should be shot.”

There was no need for urging as the two leaned their muskets against the wall and sat down on a narrow bench before the kitchen table. Muttering to herself, the woman opened a cabinet, took down two wooden bowls, and stirred the soup simmering over the fire with a wooden ladle. She measured out just one ladleful for Harris and set it before him. She poured one ladleful for Peter, and looked back at Harris.

Muttering under her breath, cursing soldiers, generals, armies, and boys playing at war, she added half a ladle more to Peter’s bowl and set it before him.

He looked up at her, still wide-eyed. He wore the expression of one overcome with awe and gratitude who might shame himself with tears, but he just sat there silent, staring at her.

“Grace,” she announced, but did not bow her head. Instead, she looked up as if about to deliver a lecture to the Almighty.

“God…end this war, send a plague on those who started it, and return these boys home to their mothers. Amen.”

She didn’t offer spoons, and after hesitating for several seconds, Harris simply lifted the steaming bowl. It was a thick potato soup with several slices of pork floating in it. It was near to scalding, but he swallowed it down in several gulps and sat back. Peter sipped at it slowly and actually set it back down with a little still in the bottom. He stared at it. Harris struggled with himself not to ask if the boy was leaving the last few ounces behind. Peter shifted uncomfortably and then looked up at the woman.

“If you will excuse me, ma’am,” he gasped, and without waiting for a reply he bolted for the door and back out into the storm.

“What the devil’s got him?” she asked.

“He’s got the bloody flux, ma’am, begging your pardon. I think the meal hit him with another bout.”

She started toward the window to look out but then turned away.

“Well, I hope he made it to the necessary place,” she announced. “Your army marching past here these last few days, you’d think they’d been taught to at least find some bushes to hide behind when taking care of such things. Merciful God, what a mess, right on either side of the road, it’s disgusting.”

“The flux, ma’am, I’m sorry. Don’t give you much time to decide when it hits you.”

She sighed.

“A boy like him should be home in bed.”

She stiffened and looked back at Harris.

“Now state your business.”

“I am looking for Mr. Potts. I was informed he owns this property.”

“He isn’t here.”

“May I ask where I might find him?”

“Try Philadelphia. He’s a Quaker. He owns the forge, but he decided to stay in the city even after the British came.”

“And am I addressing Mrs. Potts?”

“I should say not!” For the first time she allowed the trace of a smile. “I was married to his brother, that is, until smallpox took him off. Quakers they are, and maybe my temperament wasn’t suited to him and them. Then I married Mr. Hewes.

“I am Deborah Hewes. My husband, Colonel Hewes, is off with the state militia. God knows where, though. Haven’t got a single letter from him in months. Months, I tell you. Darn fools, I’m willing to bet he is sitting safe and snug in some billet out there in Pittsburgh or wherever instead of being here, where he belongs. When the British came in September and burned the forge, he certainly wasn’t here to defend it. The hired hands ran off, so I’m the only one left. Now, does that satisfy your questioning?”

She looked at Harris as if he was to blame for the straits she was in. He quickly nodded in agreement, then shook his head with sympathy.

“And if my husband happens to be lurking with your army, tell him he better come home now. We got cleaned out once when the British raided and made off with my milk cow, and now another army’s at my doorstep. So if you see him, tell him his wife is looking for him, and, by God, I’ll come up to the camp looking for him if need be, and drag him back by the scruff of his neck. And don’t think I won’t do it!”

Harris tried not to smile. He could well imagine the reception Mr. Hewes would receive upon his return. It would not be a pleasant one.

“No, ma’am. I mean, yes, ma’am, I believe you would, indeed.”

“What does your general want?”

“His Excellency the General humbly requests the privilege of renting your house as his headquarters for the duration of our army’s stay in this place.”

He recited the words slowly, exactly as Major Tilghman had conveyed them.

She stood with arms folded.

“How long and how much?”

“Ma’am, I can’t say as to how long.”

“A week, a month, perhaps till Judgment Day? Which, with the way things are looking, I pray comes sooner rather than later.”

“I would say the winter, ma’am.”

“Four months, then. Now, how much?”

Tilghman had been specific on this delicate point. Owners of the scattering of houses in the region were being approached the same as Mrs. Hewes to house the other generals. Word would spread in a flash as to what the going rate would be once the general had settled on a place to stay, so he had to negotiate carefully.

“The general suggested a hundred a month.”

“A hundred of what?”

“Why, Continentals, of course.”

She threw back her head and laughed.

“For what? I don’t need kindling for the fire. Maybe that poor boy of yours out there could use it for what he’s suffering from.”

Harris tried to smile. It was a common joke with the troops, even though they had only been paid twice in the last six months with the paper currency, at ten dollars a month. Ten dollars could actually buy a man a dozen eggs or a couple of loaves of bread if he was lucky enough to find someone selling such luxuries. A dozen eggs for a month of marching, freezing, sickness, and defeats.

“Sorry, no Continentals, and before you say a word back, Sergeant, I am a patriot, not a Tory, so don’t insult me.”

He fell back to the next step.

“Would you consider a Pennsylvania promissory note? Your husband is a colonel with the militia, so surely it will be honored.”

“How much?”

He hesitated.

“Ten dollars a month, Pennsylvania promissory?”

“Don’t insult me.”

He extended his hands in a gesture of futility. Only as an extreme last resort was he to reveal that if need be, hard currency, Dutch dollars would be offered, dipping into the last few dollars, guineas, and silver crowns left in the general’s reserve.